M6. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Chap. Jr >? Copyriglit No. 

Shelf 3142 5 lYlC 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Moody Days 



y" 



BY 
MARGARET T}" DEAVER 



^ 



chattanooga 

Press of MacGowan & Cooke Co. 

1900 



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23834 



T5 



|L.ior«ry of CoiK4rt:jr,.^ 

) "^'wo Copies Receivf.o 
; ,UL 23 1900 

SECOND COPY. 

06<iver<xi to 

OROER 01 VISION,. 

JUL 23 1900 



66161 

Copyright, 1899 by 
MARGARET T. DEAVER 



In CQemoi^y 

OF THE TIME WHEN WE WALKED TOGETHER 
HAND IN HAND; I DEDICATE TO YOU DEAR 

ZTellte (Sraij, 

THIS SMALL VOLUME. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction 7 

Echoes 11 

Past— Future 14 

Smiles and Tears 16 

Discontent 18 

Life's Rainy Days 20 

Mother— Love 22 

Love — Satisfying, or ? 24 

Memorial 27 

On the Verge 30 

Distinctive Lines 33 

The Tongue — Governed and Ungoverned 37 

Home 41 

Rewards of Fame 44 

Faces Reflected 48 

Pride 51 

Time's Onward Flight 55 

Minor Chords 57 

Friendship 60 

Oh, for a Glance ! 63 

Memory 63 

From Cloud to Sunshine 68 

Conclusion 70 



INTRODUCTION. 



The critical eye of the public may never peruse 
these lines. 

I am in this way simply striving to lighten the 
burden of my own mind, which, at times, seems 
more than I can endure. 

Have you ever stood upon a mountain and 
watched the beautiful banks of soft white clouds, 
as they swiftly floated across the heavens ? Or, on 
a cloudless day, lounged in an easy chair, the air 
laden with the sweet fragrance of summer, and 
lifted your eyes to the sky above you, then allow 
your gaze to wander to the hill-side, from whence 
the cow-bells' musical chime is wafted to you, as 
the grazing herd lazily nip the tender green? 

Old Brindle eats her fill, then, standing in the 
shade of the wide-spreading oak, her tail lazily 
brushing away the festive fly, while, now and then, 
her head is thrown around to her side, to relieve 
the unpleasant sting of an unusually severe bite, 
and, finally, she wanders off to the babbling brook, 
that seems to be singing its own song of praise to 
the beauties of Nature. She will plunge into the 

7 



rippling waters, forming a pretty picture for the 
eye. A scene of absolute idleness — idle comfort, — 
while enjoying the cool shade. 

Or, again, you hear the low mutterings in the 
distance, that herald the approach of the storm 
king ! you flee madly from the house, feeling that 
you will suifocate if you remain within a moment 
longer. You fling your arms madly about, in al- 
most a frenzy of ecstasy, and eagerly stretch forth 
your hands to the breeze, watching with a thrill of 
joy ; as the storm gathers force and onward comes, 
bending the stately trees in dignified salutation, 
until you feel lifted from this dull earth, mingling 
with the storm spirits of the air — with feelings 
both of pleasure, and of pain. 

They embrace you with their phantom arms, 
then hurriedly fling you from them, and flit on 
and on, laughingly looking back, with wildly flow- 
ing locks, and draperies of fluttering white. 

Listen ! — some one is calling ! Awake ! The 
King of Day is bursting forth in all his radiant 
glory ! You bound from your couch, hastily push 
aside the hangings of your window, and look out 
upon a perfect spring day. Again you hurry forth, 
with bounding step, to commune with Nature — 
happy, joyous, and gay, longing for the wings of a 
dove, that you might hasten whence fancy willed. 
Turn to the trees and flowers ! Ponder ! How 
Spring is lightly touching with her magic wand. 
These beautiful gifts for man's enjoyment, which 

8 



only this dainty touch can imbue with new life and 
beauty. 

I often wonder when Spring comes gliding in, 
why we are so joyous and gay. And yet there is an 
unutterable longing for something we can not name. 
Indeed, the lives of all, are spring-like in this re- 
spect. 

So it is, we are alike unto nature,— the beauti- 
ful but ever-changing ! Joy, gladness— sorrow, de- 
spair ! 

Moody days — days of brightness — days of 
shadow ! 

Reader, you will not find the contents of this 
little volume connected. I am only laying bare 
my heart— sometimes calm, again bounding in hot 
anger and indignation ; then throbbing in a perfect 
hell of despair. 

So, in moody days only, will I endeavor to give 
you a pen picture of the restless mind of 

Margaret Theodora Deaver. 



ECHOES. 



" Rippling waters, flowing onward, 
Onward, to the ocean wide, 

Gliding over silvery pebbles, 
Joining with the endless tide. 

Laughing waters, rippling waters. 
Flowing on to join the tide. 

From the distant past the echoes 
Sounding in my heart today. 

Blend together past and present, 
Shaping life from sheer decay. 

Echoes blending past and present, 
Springing life from real decay." 



-R. 



Echoes ! echoes from the long ago ! 

Echoes sound o'er the dark, stagnant pool. 
The sluggish waters hide many secrets, drawing 
forever a curtain over the bodies of despairing 
creatures who, in their anguish, sought this lonely 
place, hoping here to find rest down in the depths 
of the dark waters, away from the strife of the 
world. 

Echoes sound through the mountain pass, 
echoing and re-echoing from precipice to precipice, 
bearing on and on the organized wail of the un- 

11 



fortunate traveler, who, losing his footing, is sud- 
denly hurled down, down, into the chasm below, 
and in an instant he treads the narrow foot path 
which leads to eternity's brink. 

Echoes, resound o'er the peaceful farm-house 
in the valley, catching the plantive note of the 
turtle-dove ; until it seems that myriad spirits are 
flitting around this calm, quiet spot. The house- 
dog lying in the cool shade, catches the sweet, ye4; 
lonely sound, and the plantive melody penetrating 
even the canine nature, he raises his hoarse and 
grating voice, causing the quiet valley to reverber- 
ate with his melancholy howling. 

Echoes, re-echoing the tread of countless foot- 
steps — footsteps of a vast city's population — sound- 
ing the tread of weary feet, that press the oft-trod 
pathways of life. 

Echoes of the footsteps of indifference. 

Echoes of the firm tread of determination. 

Echoes of joyous footsteps — footseps of child- 
hood ! Who but the child is ever truly happy? 
Alas ! how quickly the light footsteps become slow 
and dragging, and the echo of joy is transformed to 
the echo of a hollow groan. 

Echoes ! forming link after link, composing a 
ponderous chain, spaning the universe. 

Echoes, that waft the quiet breathing of my 
babyhood among the tossing boughs — reechoing my 
gleeful laugh of early childhood, forming the golden 
links in the endless chain of life. 

12 



Echoes of the schoolroom, sounding the mirth 
of mischievous schoolmates. 

Echoes ! forming the links in the chain of ex- 
istence, as in maidenhood the herculean blacksmith 
forges with many telling blows the iron band to en- 
circle my heart. 

Echoes of the past, present, and future come to 
my ears, as, in the twilight, I watch my bright Star 
of Hope, setting in the boundless expanse of 
darkness. 



13 



PAST— FUTURE. 



I am standing beside the funeral bier, that will 
soon bear the cold still form of eighteen hundred 
and ninety-eight into the great beyond ! He will 
not " approach his tomb like a quarry-slave at 
night, scourged to his dungeon," but may he for 
all " approach his grave like one who wraps the 
drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to 
pleasant dreams." While I watch his labored 
efforts as he draws his fluttering breath, his eyes all 
but closed in that last long sleep, I take his hand 
in a loving clasp — for, has he not brought great joy 
during his reign? And, though some sorrow, has 
he not in a kingly manner given the balm of hap- 
piness to lessen the sting? As I raise my bowed 
head, I see I do not weep alone, for King Winter 
mourns with me. And, if not here, in the cold 
northern land, where he holds mighty sway, he has 
brought as a gift to the dying year, a winding sheet 
of snow. 

The moments are passing. . As the clock hands 
upon the shelf point heavenward, our great and 
good friend breathes his last. 

I turn to King Winter for sympathy in this 
great sorrow. Lo ! his countenance is radiant and 

14 



smiling;, and his raiment of white seems changed to 
wedding garments. He returns my glance of sor- 
row with a smile of hope and good cheer, exclaim- 
ing, " weep not ; for see, the young king in all his 
glory is approaching ! " 

Looking toward the east, I see the first rays of 
the dawn ; that give warning that the new king of 
eighteen hundred and ninety-nine taketh up his 
sceptre. 

May joy and gladness crown his reign ! 



15 



SMILES AND TEARS. 

Oh, happy laughter of childhood ! 

"Night with sable pinions " has glided in and 
silently folded the busy world in restful darkness. 
As I sit in the gathering gloom, while the shadows 
deepen, the music of the merry laughter of little 
children is wafted to my ear upon the evening 
zephyrs. And from a distant cloister, the more 
matured, but still joyous laughter of the older boys 
and girls, just now stepping into the shadowy realm 
of young manhood and womanhood. 

Have you ever stopped to note the change of 
the quality of mirth, as time advances year by 
year? First, the cooing laugh of babyhood, that 
causes one to think of the white-winged dove of 
peace — this baby laugh of innocence that fancy 
parallels with the lyric music of the angels of 
heaven. Surely it is the sublime chord in that 
grand orchestra of Jehovah, sent to brighten this 
sin-cursed earth ! 

Then the mirth of childhood, as in almost an 
ecstasy of enthusiasm they spend the happiest 
years of their varied life. The white dove struts 
proudly upon the graveled walk, and spreading its 
graceful wings, flits to the moss-covered eaves, coo- 

16 



ing softly to its mate, nestles its head caressingly 
upon the downy wing, and so we leave them slum- 
bering in peace. 

Another step, and we are treading the shadowy 
land, where sweet childhood is gliding swiftly into 
the past, while flitting moods of graver thoughts 
are mingled with the joyous laughter of maiden- 
hood. 

We bound eagerly forward. And that which 
yesterday seemed an avenue strewn with fragrant 
roses, is today a rough and narrow path bordered 
with thorns, which causes us to lose forever the 
mirthful chord of earlier years. We begin now to 
realize the stern trials of life, and alas, our days of 
sunshine now have their hours of gloom. 

The white winged dove that once soared so 
high, is now in the dust of the highway, the proud 
head, once so erect droops low, and the wings of 
snowy white flutter in agonized despair. 

Yes, there is one step more that comes, aye, 
comes, all too fast ! 

Time has furrowed the brow, and left his 
snows upon the now thin locks— the step is uncer- 
tain, the wrinkled hand is palsied, the sight is 
dimned, the form tottering and wasted, and the 
light musical laugh has died from the pale and 
faded lips. And drifting on and on, clothed in 
robes of deepest melancholy, the feet are at last 
bathed in the dark stream that marks the boundary 
line of earth's fitful journey. 

17 



DISCONTENT. 



"There is a day of sunny rest 

For every dark and troubled night; 
And grief may bide an evening guest, 
But Joy shall come with early light. 

" For God hath marked each sorrowing day 
And numbered every secret tear, 
And Heaven's long age of bliss shall pay 
For all His children suffer here." 
From— "Blessed Are They That Mourn." 

By William Cullen Bryant. 

Oh the dreary, dreary days ! When even 
Nature herself seems to withhold her sympathy. 
Days when the sky is leaden, and my life is dark 
and dreary. Will it ever be thus? Will there 
never come the sunny days, with dancing sunbeams, 
along this monotonous life-path — days so joyous 
and peaceful — peace of mind that will abide with 
me for at least a little space? Oh, for the rest and 
happiness my tortured heart craves ! I do not 
wish for the hollow joys of the world — to see the 
admiration of the countless throng, ever seeking 
for something new and amusing. What is it I 
wish? Ah, my heart questioneth, but my mind 
answereth not ! 

If I could but clasp the hands of loved ones, 
and say, '' Come with me to the sunny land of hap- 

18 



piness, where is freedom from the cares and petty 
trials of this world. Come to that glorious clime, 
where the rosy dawn and brilliant sunset call from 
our hearts thanksgiving and praise to the great 
Jehovah — there, in one complete and congenial 
circle, we can glory in the blessings and beauty of 
the sun, swinging in majesty across the delicately 
tinted heavens ; and setting in all grandeur behind 
deep purpled hills." And, when his bright, smiling 
face disappears behind the distant mountains, we 
watch the golden rays pass into the mysterious 
depths of the unknown, leaving lingering promises 
of a sure return. 

This happiness is unbroken ; our hearts o'er- 
flow, and our souls are stirred to the very depths of 
admiration of the exquisite beauties of Nature. 

We watch in blissful peace while the mellow 
light deepens into darker tones. Then awaking 
from this blissful reverie behold the fair "Queen of 
Night." Ascending her throne in the dome of the 
the deep blue heavens, she daintily adjusts her 
dress of silver gauze, moves majestically across the 
great expanse, wielding her sceptre o'er her bound- 
less domain. Her countless attendants — the in- 
numerable retinue of silver stars — hold their breath 
and tremble in the intensity of admiration, as, with 
sparkling eyes, they behold their Queen, moving in 
all her splendor and queenly beauty. 

Peace, happiness, rest, from this vain and 
ceaseless discontent ! 

19 



LIFE'S RAINY DAYS. 



** When in the night we wake and hear the rain." 

This sweet, yet dreary thought, has repeatedly 
presented itself to my mind. 

It is the title of a beautiful poem I read some- 
time ago. 

Perhaps the thought is suggested by the op- 
pressive gloom of today. All through the waking 
hours the crystal drops have pattered upon the 
roof ; now softly, now with a terrific violence, and 
as I listen, I say to myself : ''How like a rainy day 
is life ! " 

Awaking in the morning, I hear the falling 
rain drops. I turn upon my pillow and courting 
slumber, try to forget the day. So our lives are 
like unto rainy days. I face my existence. 

The rains are descending upon the great canopy 
of my life. In anguish I ask of the winds, " Will 
all my days be rainy? " The low muttering of the 
thunder draws nearer. Louder now it sounds, and 
more angry, until, rolling throiigh the frowning 
heavens, its roar becomes as the din of battle. 
Now and then come dazzling flashes of lightning, 
that cause me to start and shrink in terror. The 

20 



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gloom is penetrated with a bright light, but its 
passing is so rapid that nothing is discernible. The 
rain drops fall faster and still faster. Myriad feet 
now dance upon the roof ; now with a lighter tread, 
like unto a tender caress. Out of the distance 
softly break faint gleams of light — now broadening, 
becoming brighter — until, with splendor the glorious 
sun sends forth his blinding rays and proudly he 
waves from his presence the awe-stricken clouds, 
and they reverently retreat, and all is brightness. 

So in all our lives, the pattering fall of rain 
drops, symbolize the weary monotonous days. 

The insignificant troubles cause the frown up- 
on our faces to become habitual. 

The great trials of life, cause us to start and 
shrink. The agony is so great for a time that our 
senses are benumbed. But Time (at once the dis- 
troyer, and the healer,) soothes our aching heads 
and hearts, and our sufferings are alleviated. 

Heaven-born waves of happiness now break up- 
on our tortured hearts, and passing, carry with 
them the last twinges of pain and sorrow. And as 
the white-capped waves break upon the shores of 
time we are left standing with uplifted hands, and 
lips o'erflowing with praise — in God's own sunshine. 



21 



MOTH ER= LOVE. 

I have been thinking of that most precious of 
gifts, a mother's love. 

The vast ocean has been sounded, and its 
depths ascertained ; the earth spanned, and its 
circumference measured ; the lightning has been 
plucked from the clouds, and is in strict obedience 
to man's wish. Edison has given to us the possi- 
bility of hearing our own voices, in oratory and 
song ; he entrances nations by flashing his living 
pictures before their delighted eyes. By the aid of 
wonderfully constructed mechanism the eye can 
penetrate solid substance ; peer into the human 
body, and gaze upon the great center of life, as it 
marks the passing moments. 

In fact, man's wonderful brain and ingenuity 
have fathomed almost all the mysteries of land and 
sea ! 

But who has yet discovered the height, the 
depth, the length, the breadth of a mother's love? 

Friends may despise you, brothers avoid, and 
fathers forsake you ; but though all else shall fail, 
mother will cling to her child in loving sympathy, 
and will shield you with her life, until at last, her 
waxen hands are folded upon her stilled heart, and 

22 



the tired and faded eyes, that in time past flashed 
defiance at the countless fingers pointed in scorn at 
the child of her bosom, are closed in that last long 
sleep. 

It was mother who hushed the feeble cries of 
infancy; it was mother who straightened the 
cramped limbs, and soothed the burning brow. It 
was mother who burned the midnight oil and bowed 
in speechless agony over the tiny sufferer's couch ; 
and when the weary eyes unclosed, the little one 
found comfort only upon mother's breast. Mother, 
mother! Is there a sweeter name on earth? Is 
there a word that recalls so vividly the sacred mem- 
ories of the dearest friend of childhood days? 

When we arrive at young manhood and wom- 
anhood we may look back upon those early days, 
and this despairing wail arises from the suffering 
heart : "Oh, mother, mother ! would to God that 
your love and wisdom could have pierced the com- 
ing years, and as you bathed my fevered brow, 
your prayer had been that " the peace of the grave 
might be mine ! " 

If we but could look beyond—beyond 



23 



LOVE— SATISFYING OR- 



" Faith, Hope and Love were questioned what they thought 
Of future glory, which Religion taught. 
Now, Faith believed it firmly to be true. 
And Hope expected so to find it too ; 
Love answered, smiling, with a conscious glow. 
Believe? Expect? I know it to be so." 

By John Byron. 

We all have our spectacles, and whether we 
will it or not, they settle themselves upon our noses 
and compel us to look through them and see the de- 
fects of the human race. I say '" compeV^ \ But 
shall I acknowledge the truth for us all? Yes, it 
takes but very little persuasion, for we are all too 
ready to look through these glasses to criticise and 
ridicule everything that comes within the range 
of our vision. 

Last evening as I sat alone, this thought arose 
within me : " Strange it is, when we love no one, 
the world is a vast, dreary desert, where the sun of 
discontent beats mercilessly down upon us while 
trudging along through its burning sands. 

But then, when we do love we are miserable ! 
So there is but little choice ! 

When we do not love, we move as one treading 
24 



5;fe,. 




unfamiliar paths, fearing lest we miss our footing, 
looking out upon the world with sad and heavy 
eyes. 

Monotony ! Monotony ! Monotony ! The heart 
cries out: "I would rather sink into the very 
depths of misery, than suffer this calm endurance !" 

We love ! The dark curtain that fluttered so 
gently in the breezes is drawn aside by a generous 
hand, and catching a glimpse of the rosy-hued 
dawn, the pain at our heart is tempted by its ex- 
quisite beauty. Eagerly we watch with fascinated 
eyes this enchanting glow. 

Lost in joy and admiration, we watch the vari- 
colored picture (Love) as it deepens into richer 
tints, until it becomes one seething burning mass of 
rich red flames (Jealousy), that scorch us with 
their fiery breath , and we are so tortured that we 
would gladly exchange this burning heart for the 
cold and untouched heart that beat w^ithin us in 
times past. 

Another picture ! Here are two that love 
dearly, yet in the presence of others they utterly 
ignore one another, each apparently perfectly in- 
different as to what may be the feelings of the 
other. It is surely peculiar how we endeavor to 
deceive one another, and even ourselves, in this re- 
spect ; but certain it is, we do deceive. 

So on we go, wearily treading the same life 
path that thousands have trod before— until finally 
we discover that the cup of sorrow is filled to the 

25 



brim, and we must drink the very dre^s of de- 
spair ! Looking back at the long, winding road we 
have just traversed, we hastily turn away, as Mem- 
ory, that mischievous sprite, dances upon the verge 
of the land where happiness, sorrow and disap- 
pointment are one tangled mass. 

Our weary eyes revert to the scene before us. 
With the dauntless and reckless courage of the 
human mind, we eagerly press onward. With 
throbbing heart, we stretch forth our hands and 
grasp at the closely drawn curtain of the Future, 
and vainly endeavor to fling it aside, that we may 
see that which lies beyond. But at last human au- 
dacity must acknowledge its defeat. Overwhelmed 
with the realization of our insignificance, retreat 
and submission are the only alternative. 



26 



MEMORIAL. 



"Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 
Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 

Or flattery soothe the duU cold ear of death? " 

From— "Eulogy Written in a Country Churchyard." 

Thomas Gray. 

'Tis the dawn of the Nation's Memorial Day, 
and eager, interested crowds hurry on to that beau- 
tiful, but ever awe-inspiring city of the dead. They 
surge on, laughing, jesting gaily. Tresently they 
assume (or it may be real) a solemn aspect. 
Quietly, and with tender hands they strew flowers 
o'er the graves of the silent sleepers who have 
gone — gone — where ? 

Few and short are the years that have passed 
since the dwellers of this silent city were effulgent 
with the light of youth and animated life. Today 
the green sward is the roof of their dwelling-place, 
upon which will beat the storms of ages, and as 
Time rolls on, this house of clay will sink and be 
obliterated, and the memory even of the tomb will 
fade away. 

So your grave and mine will some day be for- 
gotten, and our resting place may be a path over 
which thousands of feet may tread, knowing not of 

27 



the ashes that repose there ; or the busy part of a 
great city may be our unknowing monument ; and 
as the light of many days has passed into the dark- 
ness of night — night which witnessed in its passing 
the joys and sorrows of man — those who trod the 
pathway o'er our graves will also come and rest 
upon the same common couch and sleep the dream- 
less sleep of Death. 

We pass through the crowds that throng the 
graveyard. Their faces are a study as they move 
from tomb to tomb. We read the quaint epitaphs 
and every word contains a tear. We note the faces 
of those whose grief inspired those same words, 
and on those faces we read "forgetfulness." They 
have forgotten their dead : they forget that they, 
too, must die ! 

They see not the grim detective who is 
shadowing their footsteps. He laughs as he listens 
to these deluded ones who speak of the far distant 
day when they, too, will be laid away, and have for 
their covering the mound of clay and its springing 
grass, and for a winding sheet the soft, white snow ; 
when they, too, shall sleep the sleep that knows no 
waking ; where this body shall moulder and be for- 
gotten by all save the worms of the earth that shall 
claim it as their rightful food. And so shall they 
take their departure across the dark river, and few 
will stand upon the banks of life and shed pitying 
tears. Then comes forgetfulness. What an awful 
yet blessed gift ! 

28 



You and I have stood by the casket, and with 
sorrowing eyes watched the impassive face of the 
undertaker as he lifted the lid and allowed us to 
look for the last time upon the beloved face. Can 
anyone truly think otherwise, as they stand beside 
this dear body, than that the loved one has forever 
laid down the mortal life and taken up the im- 
mortal? 

If I had no other assurance than my own feel- 
ings, when I stand beside the dead, I would be sat- 
isfied that death does not end all, but that it is 
simply a step into the dividing shadow of life — put- 
ting off of the old, and taking up of the new. And 
only when your feet touch the waters of the dark 
river will you be able to comprehend ! 

No messenger brings back the glad or sad 
tidings to those behind. 



29 



ON THE VERGE. 



'Alas! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 

Under the sun! 
Oh, it was pitiful! 
Near a whole city full, 

Home she had none.' 



-Thomas Hood. 



Truly, their seems to be a certain degree of 
pleasure in dancing upon the verge! 

Daily I see young girls, fair of face and form, 
dancing with light-hearted indifference upon the 
verge which divides the two life-paths — where one 
more step will carry them past the diverging point, 
and they ponder not, nor question, which the path 
that leads to happiness, or which to misery and de- 
struction. 

And yet they dance, laughing gayly, coyly 
tossing unrestrained curls over bewitchingly 
dangerous eyes, that they may conceal what other- 
wise they could not escape seeing. Why will the 
young womanhood of today tread this broad path 
which is hedged along with so many pitfalls — that 
ever presents the rose to the enchanted traveler, 

30 



but secretes the thorn that will pierce the hearts 
of the deluded creatures? 

Soon they will encounter great, high cliffs, 
which they must scale, and each upward step 
brings to the fair face a wrinkle, and each stumb- 
ling stone encountered detracts from the perfect 
symmetry that once was a magnificent crown to 
their beauty. The shoulders, once so erect, are 
stooping ; the beautiful head that was so proudly 
held, crowned with nature's own clustering curls, 
is bowed in woe upon the heaving breast ; and the 
once brilliant eyes are faded and dimmed by tears 
of bitter sorrow, and the blanched cheek shows no 
trace of the former peach-bloom of youth. They 
have made their choice and know that there is no 
turning back. 

They scale the topmost obstacle, and tread the 
plain, leaving the road where '^Blue-eyed Hope," 
with encouraging words, endeavored to guide them 
into the path of happiness. But, here, where the 
rebellious feet of these despoilers of their own 
souls, press the beaten ways, Hope, with her blue 
eyes o'erflowing with pityins: tears, cries out in 
anguish : " Farewell ! I leave you ! I dare not 
pass into this barren land, where the wolf of sorrow 
and despair guards the portals— where pain, misery, 
sorrow and remorse endure forever; where the 
the human heart has gone to the very depths of 
despair." 

And these sad wrecks, as they realize their 

31 



own folly, that can never be recalled from the 
grim keeper of the past, turn with despairing 
horror upon their hardened faces, and watch Hope, 
as her flitting form fades in the distance, until she 
is swallowed up in space. 

Golden opportunity gone ; approaching is — 
Death— Eternal. 



32 



DISTINCTIVE LINES. 



" Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 
And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time." 

From— "A Psalm of Life." 

By Henry W. Longfellow. 

Did it ever occur to you that there are six dis- 
tinct classes of people? 

First — those who know nothing, and do not care 
to know. They are only animals, that in the spring 
time greedily devour the tender grass that nature 
brings forth. 

True, these animals possess a soul! But from 
their own deliberate choosing, strangle it, in the 
first years of existence. There is little to be done 
for such creatures, unless, before the last stage sets 
in, and they become utter brutes, some grand 
workman of life will set to work with his chisel of 
endurance and hammer of good will ; then he 
might, in time, with perseverance, produce a beau- 
tiful piece of work, that would send forth its light 
to penetrate into the souls of others, and warm into 
the living fountains the ice-bound hearts and start 
the ebb and flow of the life-blood of those who 
had been dead in trespasses and sin. 

33 



Then there is the ordinary man of today. He 
is not bothered with ambition. If he gets a few- 
clothes, enough to eat, and a little of what he calls 
enjoyment, he, as a rule, is well contented, and 
will probably make an average husband — for one 
who is not very choice. Do not misunderstand me 
and say that I infer he has no soul. But yon must 
acknowledge, it is not largely developed. 

After this plodding pilgrim comes the wise (?) 
man. He goes about with a nonchalant air. He 
really does possess 56>me knowledge ; but in trying 
to flaunt his wisdom, displays his ignorance—igno- 
rance of the one great talent of life. He set^-- him- 
self upon a pedestal, and with blase expression 
upon Ihis speaking ( ?) countenance, wearily looks 
down upon the stream of humanity. If you at- 
tempt to enter into conversation with this most 
interesting ( ?) individual, he will yawn, discuss the 
weather, inquire after the health of the family and 
by the time he has finished these interesting sub- 
jects, he is perfectly exhausted, and his reproachful 
eyes look upon you, and, from their depths (if you 
are quick at reading), you can trace these thoughts : 
" Do you not see how I have exerted myself to be 
pleasant, I could discuss deep subjects, but you 
would not understand, and, therefore, could not ap- 
preciate them. 

We look impatiently past this character, wish- 
ing to forget he ever existed, and watch with inter- 
ested eyes the one coming down the life path, and 

34 



exclaim : "Here is a truly great man !" He walks 
slowly for one of his years, but with a firm and 
resolute step. Pausing, he touches lightly with his 
cane a toad that is basking in the sunshine, and 
watches with a dreamy yet thoughtful light in his 
deep set eyes, and a quizzical smile upon his lips as 
the ungraceful little creature hastily scrambles out 
of his reach. Resuming his walk, he nods in a 
friendly manner to some laborers, as they look up 
from their work ; he quickens his step and it can be 
seen from the expression in his noble eyes, that the 
recollection of some important duty causes him to 
hasten. But urgent business does not prevent him 
from lending a helping hand to a little street urchin, 
who has unfortunately come to grief in a foot race 
with his playmates. He lifts up the little fallen 
one, assures him he is not badly hurt, speaks a few 
gentle words, and after tenderly patting the head 
of matted curls, he resumes his hasty walk, leaving 
this little creature staring in astonished admiration 
upon his rescuer, as he passes from his sight. The 
youngster, starting at full speed to join his com- 
panions ejaculates "Holy smoke, but wasn't he a 
good 'un !" This man does not hold himself aloof, 
but mingles with, and listens attentively to all who 
address him, willing to learn of all. He does not 
converse upon trifles, but, with unconscious grace, 
pays the commonest people the compliment of talk- 
ing with them as he would with the wisest of men. 
This man will laugh heartily at a humorous story 

35 



and can keep pace with anyone in talking nonsense, 
and not only talk it but enjoy the pastime. He, 
indeed, is a great man — one at whose feet all 
students of life, who are willing to learn, should 
count a blessing to p-it, and hear the words of 
wisdom, sparkling jewels, as they fall from his lips, 
and become imbued with his spirit, and model their 
own acts after his high standard. 

Then there is the impulsive man, usually of 
upright intentions ; but alas, easily influenced for 
good or for evil. This man would make a fair 
flower to bloom in the garden of Jehovah, and 
would be capable of grand things, provided, he had 
a strong arm to lean upon, and a firm will to guide 
him into the right path. And so his fate rests up- 
on the treacherous wave of circumstances. 

Off with your hats, and cry "All hail ! " as the 
true Christian comes calmly down the path. Why 
calmly? Because he leaneth not upon his own 
strength, but prays for the guiding arm of the 
Father, who is ever ready to help those who ask 
this blessing. 

Search thyself ! 

To which class do yoif^ belong? 



36 



THE TONGUE— GOVERNED AND UNGOVERNED. 

The tongue, governed, is a wonderful factor for 
good, peace and happiness. 

The same member, ungoverned, is equall}^ as 
great a factor in the opposite direction. 

Is there anything, good or evil that has not 
been accomplished by this small member ? Nations 
have been thrown into great enthusiasm by a few 
well chosen words of fiery eloquence. So words 
spoken, have traveled from lip to lip, until thou- 
sands upon thousands of men have stood ready to 
lay down their lives in defense of these words. 

Again, in uttering a few kind words to wife, 
sweetheart, friend, sister, brother — words that will 
cause the brightest sunshine in our homes, though 
the King of Day may have hidden his light in a 
tempest of fury. 

A few such words will cause the wife's worn 
face to beam again with the brightness of girlhood. 
See the wrinkles that lie at the corners of her still 
beautiful eyes, and the lines of pain that hover 
around the sad and drooping mouth, which a few 
short years ago, would curl and dimple chin and 
cheek, in bewildering beauty. Speak kind and 
loving words, and this sad face — the shadow of 

37 



former days — will brighten again into youth and 
beauty. 

Unconsciously the drooping shoulders will be 
held erect, and the weary step will change into the 
springing blitheness of girlhood. So, the husband, 
as he seats himself at the dinner table will look 
admiringly upon his wife's radiant face and say: 
" Why, Mary, you look as young and pretty as you 
did when first we met ! come lass, and give me a 
kiss." 

He is unconscious that a few words from him 
have proven the great tonic of life. 

And the wife finishes her work, stepping with 
girlish lightness, with a joyous and smiling counte- 
nance, thinking, "How happy and thankful I should 
be for all the blessings heaped upon me." From 
her overflowing heart their will rise to her lips a 
triumphant song, that she sang in early days, before 
she knew care or sorrow. 

As the young girl passes from maidenhood to 
womanhood she does not realize that she possesses 
the power of uplifting and ennobling, or of crush- 
ing and destroying. 

When the man who loves her whispers to her 
his hopes, the drooping lids are raised and the 
beautiful eyes look into his pleading face. We 
look into their depths and see that the fancies of 
girlhood have forever vanished, and the dawning 
knowledge of womanhood has taken possession. 

The wicked are fallen, but who shall say there 
38 



is no salvation? A kind word spoken by the 
Christian whose daily life is his passport, may be 
the means of uplifting even the most degraded, and 
making of them markers along life's pathway — 
markers to guide the pilgrim's footsteps into paths 
of peace and right. 

We are enchanted as these kaleidoscopic views 
pass before us, and watch with eagerness for the 
changing scenes. 

But evil pictures darken the canvas, and we 
behold what misery the tongue can cause. We 
watch in sorrow as the people who profess to be 
kind hasten to secure the crumbs that the great 
wave of gossip strews upon the banks of scandal. 
This tiny piece is rolled from tongue to tongue till 
it assumes enormous proportions. 

The heated words will scorch and burn what 
was once pleasing to behold, untill at last it will be 
tossed aside, as blackened beyond the taste even of 
the most fastidious scandal monger. 

It is far more kind to murder the bodj^ than to 
damn the soul ! 

Take a character that is pure and white. Some 
malicious tongue is set to work with the intention 
of degrading this one. 

The gossip begins modestly, and with each time 
it is repeated, grows until even friends will begin 
to look darkly upon the object of the attack ; ac- 
quaintances will cease to bow to this unfortunate 
one upon the street. And, although the heart is 

39 



wrung, the head is held proudly erect, in defiance 
of gossip. At last it reaches brothers and sisters, 
and thep are highly indignant. Then, as time rolls 
on, they, too, will cast suspicious glances upon you. 
And, seeing this you give up the struggle in despair, 
and lose all hope. Then, if you have not a strong 
sustaining will, you will helplessly drift down the 
stream, (which seems resistless), until at last you 
are a total wreck. And as far as the better world 
is concerned your soul is utterly dead, and the 
tongue of gossip is your destroyer. 

The fiend that murdered this innocent charac- 
ter will walk, it may be, along paths of roses and be 
admired and flattered. But the sword of the 
Avenger is rapidly descending, to forever cut down 
the deliberate and unrepentant destroyer of human 
character. 



40 



HOME. 



" Those evening bells! those evening bells! 
How many a tale their music tells 
Of youth, of home, and that sweet time 
When last I heard their soothing chime ! 

Those joyous hours are passed away; 
And many a heart that then was gay 
Within the tomb now darkly dwells. 
And hears no more those evening bells. 

And so 'twill be when I am gone— 
That tuneful peal will still ring on ; 
While other bards shall walk these dells. 
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells." 
''Those Evening Bells." 

— By Thomas Moore. 

Home ! What a feeling of peace and rest 
steals like a gentle zephyr over the heart, as we 
speak that sweet word, "Home ! '- 

Home, where one may bar the doors against 
those who would intrude upon one's time and mat- 
ters belonging exclusively to one's self or the home 
circle — where can be found a place of refuge m 
time of trouble, and be alone to give vent to pent 
up anguish. 

Home, where we pour out our griefs and woes, 
our joys and ecstasies ; whether grief or joy, they 
fall upon sympathetic ears — and are fully appreci- 
ated only by our loved ones at "Home." Oh, what 
greater blessing could be desired than a happy 

41 



home-circle, where there is no vacant chair to sad- 
den the gay laughter, or cloud the smiling face? 

"Home, sweet home." As I repeat the words, 
they blend in heavenly harmony. The music be- 
comes more distinct, and in my ears now ring angel 
voices in the last strains of that sweet old song : 

** Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home." 

Oft in childhood when the willful playmate 
vexed you, you would hastily gather together the 
toys of which you were so proud, and with form 
drawn up to the fullest height in righteous indigna- 
tion, you would announce in haughty tones these 
crushing words — "I am going home," and with all 
the pride you could command, walk proudly away. 

Home ! even as children, though not realizing 
all the blessings of a home, yet, there is where our 
troubles were carried. When the little ripples 
widened and roughened the peaceful and quiet 
waters of childhood, instinctively you would turn 
your thoughts and face homeward. 

Then as age begins to overtake us, when we 
have battled with the waves of Circumstance, 
finally our frail bark strikes upon the shoals of Dis- 
couragement, and the first thought is, "I am going 
home ! " 

Home ! when the day's toil is ended, the fond 
husband takes up his dinner bucket and hurries 
home to mingle with wife and children, and enjoy 
the warmth and cheerfulness of his own fireside — 

42 



forgetting shop and outside world, totally wrapped 
up in family and "Home." 

What does it matter if his home is only a little 
vine-wreathed cottage upon the hillside? 

What care he for the great world ? His world 
is there in that small dwelling. 

The patter of tiny feet is heard, as the little 
ones hurry to greet him. The childish prattle, and 
the joyous chiming laughter is the sweetest music 
to his ears. 

Could one ask a greater blessing than a home, 
a happy home? 



43 



REWARDS OF FAflE. 



Fame ! the great King, whom all aspirants to 
his favor hold in awe. And well they may. For 
the happiness of this tyrant's life consists in tortur- 
ing those who, with fear and trembling, sue for his 
approval. 

And as they bow before him offering upon 
golden salvers precious gifts, they are fully cog- 
nizant that the gems they offer, are precious jewels 
of rare quality. 

Why do they tremble, as if, instead of real 
jewels, they proffered worthless imitation? Be- 
cause they know he is a capricious sovereign ; that 
their magnificent offerings, may bring forth only a 
sarcastic refusal. 

Today he spurns the gift which, if presented 
tomorrow, may cause the blandest smile to play 
upon his cynical lips, and he may then accept the 
gifts, and bestow upon the givers their just praises. 

Let us look upon the awe-stricken donor ! 

What means the refusal to him, who, year by 
year, has laboriously dug from the mine of mind, 
these jewels? Jealously has he guarded them by 
day and by night. He assumes a courage he is far 

44 



from possessing ; and striving to gain control of him- 
self, humbly proffers the casket to his sovereign. 
And for his effort, receives from the haughty 
monarch a mocking smile as he is calmly waved 
from The presence. 

The poor, grief-striken subject who has humbly 
pleaded for favor, with the realization of his fail- 
ure weighing him down, crushing his every hope, 
creeps from the dread presence. 

He returns to the poor, poverty-stricken room 
he calls home, where he can give vent to the pent 
up anguish, free from inquiring eyes, and away 
from the public sneer. 

With a stilled groan, he bows his head upon his 
hands and sobs in bitter realization that, to him, 
life is a failure. 

Do not judge him wrongly! He mourns not 
for the loss of the favors, which the acceptance of 
his gifts would have brought him, but sighs (and 
without egotism), for "the loss the world has sus- 
tained." 

And so the casket is thrust in a dark corner, 
where Time may furnish a friendly covering of 
dust. 

Wearily the owner of the casket plods along 
until at last he reaches the end of what was to him 
a long and painful journey. Gladly he welcomes 
the rest, e'en though it be in a potter's field. 

Years have rolled by. King Fame still reigns. 
The years have left no trace upon the locks that 

45 



caress the broad brow ; and in his bland and smil- 
ing face are found no furrows. 

The monarch impulsively turns to his attend- 
ants and orders that the poor subject of years ago 
be brought immediately before him. 

In astonishment they gaze upon him, until, 
seeing the smile has faded, and a thunderous frown 
darkens his brow, hasten in confusion to do his bid- 
ding. The search is a long, weary one. 

At last their patience is rewarded, and they 
find the object of their search is resting upon the 
common couch — Death — where even their king is 
powerless to bid him wake. 

Hurrying to their master, they disclose the suc- 
cess and failure of the search. 

He impatiently listens, and gives hurried 
orders for them to "search for the casket." 

Again they hurry forth to do the King's bid- 
ding. 

After days of searching, the casket is found. 
It is tarnished, but not the jewels it contains. 

With jubilant hearts they carry it to the king, 
and humbly lay it at his feet. 

Opening the casket in haste, he examines the 
contents. And now does the monarch decree that 
the name of the owner, (who had labored to gather 
together these treasures), be proclaimed from end 
to end of his kingdom, and heaps praises upon the 
gems. 

Too late ! The ears are dulled, the tongue is 
46 



dumb and the cold heart responds not to the call of 
Fame. 

He is gone, gone where "Fame" is a trifle un- 
worthy of consideration. 

And such today, is the reward of "Fame ! " 

Fame sought seems almost unattainable. 

Fame possessed is as chaff before the winds. 



47 



FACES REFLECTED. 



Lookout Mountain is one of the most pictur- 
esque spots on earth, and one of the most pictur- 
esque spots upon its historic heights is the beauti- 
ful Lula Lake and mad Little Lula Falls, which 
sends its dashing sprays over the sharp stones in 
wild confusion and splendor. 

As I stand and look from cliff to cliff", o'er 
grown with Nature's sweetest flowers, I turn my 
eyes upon the rippling waters of the lake below, 
and say in my mind, how insignificant is the hand 
of man, compared with the Mighty One that guides 
the brush which ever moves rapidly over earth's 
great canvas ! 

As 1 listen to the falling waters the words of 
Wilson recur to my mind, as the music of the 
water, 

** Too softly sung for grief, too grave for mirth." 

In fancy I see beautiful faces and forms in the 
fleecy sprays. 

One sprite seems to toss the sparkling drops 
and her ringing laugh re-echoes from cliff' to cliff. 
She pauses in wonder, gazing upon the sad and 

48 



thoughtful face bent above her, crying in shrill 
tones, that are flung back from the rocks in many 
echoes : " Why stand ye there in sadness, and al- 
most in tears ! Why stand ye looking down upon 
my happiness, with reproachful eyes? Laugh, be 
happy and gay ! Take life lightly ! Ha ! ha ! 
What care we what lies beyond. Now is the time 
to enjoy life ! If you want to be truly happy, do 
not stop to think of the future, for that only brings 
sorrowing thoughts." 

With a bright smile, she turns, waving her 
tiny hand that, seems to say : "Be happy, regard- 
less of the future and its consequence." 

My eyes follow her as she floats on, her 
tangled golden locks looking like a parting cun- 
beam. 

I stand mute considering her advice, a smile 
upon my lips. 

With a sudden impulse I bend forward, gazing 
with hushed breath upon the wonderful vision be- 
low me. 

Another face appears. 

I look, my heart beating fast in sympathy with 
the dark sorrowful features beneath, where scorn of 
the false, thoughtless and wicked lay pictured ; the 
brow is noble and lofty ; one only need glance upon 
it to know that all infinite knowledge lay therein, 
strengthened by noble resolution. The eyes are 
large and soft, but capable of seeing through all 
falseness and sin ; and yet, with a glittering vail of 

49 



unshed tears lying in their depths — tears for the 
weak and sinful. 

She cries in thrilling tones : '' Oh, foolish one ! 
Why stand ye there, following with anxious eyes 
the tempter ! Would ye, in folly, listen to her ad- 
vice and be happy (if such the meaning of the 
word) for only a brief space, and then suffer for 
cycles upon cycles of ages — and the bitterest suf- 
fering of all the realization of your own weakness?" 

Then raising her arms imploringly she cries : 
" Do not listen to the fair-voiced temptress ! 
What right have you to be so thoughtlessly happy, 
when He suffered and died for you? Go, thought- 
less one, do noble deeds ; suffer and lift men up ; 
instead of helping the careless throng that is ever 
dragging them down ! Ah, me ! all to willing cap- 
tives. Go ! and in ages to come, you will look up- 
on the mortal life you have laid aside forever, and 
with everlasting happiness as a crown upon your 
immortal brow, will blush at the petty thoughts of 
today !" 

Her sad yet angelic smile grows dimmer, the 
blue waters close over her, and I stand — alone ! 



50 



PRIDE. 



*' Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
Like a swift- fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, 
Man passe th from life to his rest in the grave. 

***** 

For we are the same our fathers have been ; 
We see the same sights our fathers have seen ; 
We drink the same stream and view the same sun, 
And run the same course our fathers have done." 
From "Oh! why Should the Spirit of Mortal be Proud? " 

By William Knox. 

A limited amount of pride is one of the re- 
quisites. 

To be prideless, is contemptible. 

To be too proud is a fault. 

Pride ! The pride that blesses is that which 
will keep a man from uttering a false word that 
will create in him a preference for death, rather 
than to defame a character, or be guilty of an act 
unworthy of a gentlemen ; that will cause him to 
seek for friends among men who are possessed of 
brains, and are ever striving for mastery over their 
evil tendencies ; who strive to live so that when the 
fleeting years have passed, and they are laid away ; 

51 



they will be spoken of by thoughtful men as "noble 
characters." The man with this kind of pride, when 
seeking friends, cares not if his coat is old and 
worn, so it is honestly bought and neatly kept. He 
is not looking for an up-to-date suit, regardless of 
the heart which beats behind the fashionable shirt 
bosom. No, no ! He looks for friends among con- 
scientious men ; who will prove gentlemen upon all 
occasions. Those who have a will of their own, but 
are ever ready, and willing, to acknowledge a higher 
power than man's. A man having such pride, will 
prove a blessing to all with whom he comes in con- 
tact. Such a man will ever prove a true friend. 

To be prideless — what a repulsive picture 
stands boldly forth in the mind's eye ! What food 
for thought ! With unwilling eyes we gaze upon 
the scene. A room where poverty reigns supreme, 
and languishes in the filth of carelessness. 

Do not understand me to say poverty is lack of 
pride. Thank heaven, poverty of itself is no dis- 
grace ! It is only when bared of all things that 
make it worth while to strive to keep body and 
soul together, which the proud but poverty stricken 
man labors to do. When the body is stripped of its 
covering and stands before the public, nude and 
unshamed, then does poverty become a disgrace. 
However, the painful fact remains that many, 
many of the so-called intellectual and wealthy 
people look upon poverty as disgraceful. 

Poverty, yoked with an evil mind and a lack of 
52 



will to resist the brute nature that is dominant — 
poverty so surrounded is a disgrace. 

So is wealth even more disgraceful on account 
of enlarged facilities for evil doing. Poverty and 
riches alike must be sustained by pride. An over- 
abundance of pride, either in poverty or riches is 
almost as fatal as the entire lack of it. 

Too much pride will usurp the throne of every 
noble thought, and with an iron hand crush the 
kind impulses. 

As children, there is not much danger to be ap- 
prehended, of the little ones possessing the fatal 
fault — false pride. In their innocent realms do the 
rich and poor share alike, and the off-spring of 
poverty is as much an object of love as the child of 
fortune. Watch the children grow into boyhood 
and girlhood ! Then do we see that the world's 
heartless teaching and the efforts of ambitious 
parents are taking deep root in the fertile brain- 
soil of the impressionable youth and maiden, and 
we behold in sorrow, as the beautiful buds unfold 
their leaves, and the rose that was thought would 
bloom in beauty, and gladden the hearts of all by 
its fragrance, has become an object of disgust, and 
a stench to the nostrils of all noble, intellectual, 
and kind-hearted people. 

You and I have watched the oft-repeated 
dramas of life ; as the maiden will break the ties of 
love which once bound the hearts of the child of 
poverty, and the prospective heiress, she will wound 

53 



the loving heart of perhaps the best friend she will 
ever possess. False pride is her master. Oh, young 
woman of fortune, why will you scorn the poor 
maiden, who probably posesses far more beauty and 
talents than yourself, and whose lofty character 
may totally eclipse your own, and shut out the glit- 
tering splendor of your millions of gold ! 

Young man, forget not the friend of your 
youth ; his jeans may turn to broadcloth. 

Young woman, spurn not your child friend in 
the calico frock ; you may need her helping hand 
to lift you out of the depths. 



54 



TIME'S ONWARD FLIGHT. 



" Backward, turn backward oh, Time, in your flight! " \ 

What a trick Time has of rolling on. Time, the 

great monarch of humanity, comes stealing quietly ] 

along, like the first rays of the golden dawn ; like the | 

faint fragrance of a sweet flower, wafted on the j 

gentle breeze. On, on, and yet onward, ever with j 

soft caress and alluring smile. Ah, he is by our j 

side ! We smile cheerfully and think, "after all, | 

what does it matter, though he has overtaken us ! " j 

We feel assured he will prove a pleasant compan- ] 

ion. He is gifted in making us forget ; and, alas ! i 
he alone possesses that great gift. He controls the 

ebb and flow of the fabled Lethe's waters. But i 
sometimes, it seems, he is partial ; and, like all 

other monarchs, has his favorites, to whom he gives ; 

freely; and to others he gives (if at all) with a j 

grudge that leaves an after-taste of bitterness. I 

Yes, Time now walks by our side and pours in- i 
to our ears beautiful, eloquent words. Our steps 

are arrested. We are oblivious to all else in our ' 
eagerness to catch everything that falls from his 

lips. Soon we see that time is quickening his pace, j 

and we hurry to keep near him ; oh, the startling j 
realization ! His strides are lengthening, and the 

55 ^ 



sound of his voice is becoming fainter and fainter. 
Our voices are raised in entreaty ; the beseeching 
appeal expands into a frightened cry, then dies in 
a moan of despair ! 

He is gone ! Lost in the distance, and. in the 
faint echo of his voice we catch the words : 
" Time and Tide wait for no man ! " 

All that seems left for us is to bemoan our fate. 

Time is in the forefront ; opportunity is behind 
us. 

Our footsteps lack fleetness, and there is no 
turning back. 

The Minutes come dancing by — faithful serv- 
ants of the great monarch. Casting one glance of 
contempt upon these poor, foolish, unfortunate be- 
ings they cry out : " Touch not the garments of the 
foolish, for see ! E'en though the Old Year mon- 
arch, Time, has passed, and the foolish profited not 
by his passing, they idly sit and pine, unmindful 
that the glass is turned, and the grains of sand are 
slowly measuring the growth of the New. 

A sympathetic minute calls to his companion, 
who is just a step in advance, saying : " Stay ! can 
not we stop to give comfort to the careless way- 
farer?" 

The indignant answer comes rolling back : 
" Be not traitors to King Time I Away ! away ! 
Faithful servants all ! " 

^'Aye, aye ! the King hath need of me ! Watch 
lest he again should pass you by ! " 

56 



MINOR CHORDS. 

* * * The moon ! she is the source of sighs, 

The very face to make us sad ; 
If but to think in other times 

The same calm quiet look she had, 
As if the world held nothing base. 

Of vile and mean, of fierce and bad; 
The same fair light that shown in streams, 

The fairy lamp that charmed the lad ; 
For so it is, with spent delights 

She taunts men's brains and makes them mad. 
From Thomas Hood's "Ode to Melancholy." 

My window is open wide, and in silence I gaze 
upon the heaven, where the Queen of night shines 
in all her loveliness. She is superb in her pearly 
splendor and seems in a happy mood, while, with 
smiling face, she scatters a silvery brightness over 
land and sea. The breezes murmur of her loveli- 
ness, kissing her rounded cheeks, rushing swiftly 
on to tell the monarch of the forest of her exquisite 
beauty. 

The oak listens, and with unbounded enthusi- 
asm, the breezes pour into his ears, their praise of 
the lovely creature ; yet he stands erect, wuth un- 
smiling face, nor does he, by look or jesture, <?ive 
any sign of his pleasure or displeasure. 

His innumerable subjects, regardless of his 
57 



smiles or frowns, whisper softly to one another, 
fluttering with excitement as they listen to the 
ardent praise of the enthusiastic admirers. They, 
too, since the coming of the visitors, long to behold 
the face of the Queen ! In the desire for this 
pleasure, they forget the loyalty due their King, 
and recklessly throw to the winds their faint 
scruples (as the subjects of every King have done), 
and plunge into space, when, too late, they realize 
the fate that awaits them — that of a grave among 
countless fellow creatures who had previously gone 
that way — where, in a short time, their bodies will 
decay, and return to earth (the fate of all). Then 
may the light falling from the glorious eyes of the 
Queen shed a faint ray of light upon the lonely 
place where these daring ones rest, touching with 
splendor for a moment the forgotten graves, as with 
smiling face she moves majestically onward. 

" For so it is with spent delights," when the 
reckless ones have given all to grasp pleasure, 
thinking they have captured the resistless creature, 
and will ever hold her in thraldom, then do they 
find she is only a phantom form. 

Realizing this, pleasure turns to folly before 
their eyes, and brings unutterable disgust. 

So, while admiring the face of the moon, sad 
thoughts will flit, as moving pictures, before our 
eyes ; sadness, which affects the fountain of life, 
reflecting therein our complete unworthiness, and 
what weak, sinful creatures we are. 

58 




V"<<^^ 



1/ 



While I look upon the majestic loveliness of the 
night Queen, a sadness steals over me — a sadness 
dotted with thrills of joy, broidered with deep 
borders of sorrow — as in half-dazed thought and 
fascinated eyes' I gaze upon her face. 

We can rejoice in the thought that, though 
separated from our loved ones by many, many 
miles, yet can we look upon the same beautiful ob- 
ject, knowing that, as the moon swings across the 
dome of heaven, she sheds her radiance over all. 
Whether in distant lands, or upon ocean's waves, 
they, too, can feast their eyes upon the moon's love- 
liness, and thank the Creator for this moving light, 
which sheds its pearly splendor upon millions of 
heads — and among those millions, there rests the 
heads of loved ones. 

What does it matter, if, in looking upon her 
face, she touches with gentle finger the chord of 
melancholy ? 

The measure of happiness is out of harmony 
without the minor note of melancholy. 



59 



FRIENDSHIP. 



There is a phantom which frequently flits be- 
fore the mind's eye, and from shadowy outlines 
takes the form of this tormenting question : Is 
there such a virtue as true friendship in this busy, 
selfish world, or, is it another one of life's sweet 
illusions? 

There is a venerable old gentleman who roams 
the world over. What happiness he brings to every 
home ! And yet some people object to their little 
ones being taught of his existence. The name of 
this wanderer, is Santa Glaus. 

He is loved by all children, and their fondest 
hope is that they may be visited by him. Sad is 
the home where no Santa Glaus stops at Ghristmas- 
tide. True, we older folks know he is only a myth, 
and were forced, all too soon, to realize we were de- 
luded creatures. Yet when we think of the happi- 
ness this grand old man brings to the little ones, as 
they anticipate his visits, we say, "let them, in their 
innocence enjoy these moments of unalloyed bliss, 
while they romp gleefully through this short and 
narrow vale of childhood ! " 

In a few years, which will pass on fleet wings, 
these little creatures will come to the one whom in 

60 



childhood they thought the wisest of beings, and 
with great sorrow written upon their faces, will 
startle her with the declaration : ''Mamma, there 
is no Santa Glaus," and lifting their tear-dimmed 
eyes to mamma's, will ask : "Is there really no 
Santa Glaus?" Then will she turn from them in 
sorrow, knowing not how to answer, realizing the 
startling truth that the baby is a being of the past. 
I truly think that this is the greatest sorrow of 
early years, when we find there is no Santa Glaus. 

Then, when older "children," we become per- 
plexed with serious questions, we have not the advan- 
tages, we had in childhood when we could turn to 
mother, who, when answering yes or no, would 
place us in position to defy the world if necessary, 
because mother said so. 

Years pass by. We arrive at the age, when 
the mere fact of others answering in the affirma- 
tive does not satisfy us. We must satisfactorily 
answer these puzzling questions for ourselves. 

I often think how abused is the word "friend," 
as in every day walks of life I find men and women 
will meet strangers, and almost in a day's time^ 
will label them "friends." Watching them I think 
of these lines : 

"Friendship is no plant of hasty growth; tho' planted 
in esteem's deep fixed soil, the gradual culture of kind inter- 
course must bring to it perfection." 

Shakespeare says, in speaking of friendship : 

" So we grow together, like a double cherry, seeming 
61 



parted, but yet a union in partition — two lovely berries mold- 
ed on the same stem; so with two seeming bodies, but one 
heart." 

How sweet would be friendship, if we could go 
to those we have chosen to be our friends, and in 
our hours of gladness pour into their listening ears, 
the happiness that mastered us. Or, again, in 
hours of sadness, when we long for sympathy, and 
some one to advise us, we could go to these friendly 
ones and tell them of our sorrow, knowing we will 
there find loving sympathy. 

A friend is a congenial soul — one of whom you 
could make a confidante, without fear of being be- 
trayed ; one who would gladly lay down life to 
serve you, and save you pain. 

Such is true friendship! 



62 



OH, FOR A GLANCE! 



I often wonder if other girls look upon life as I 
do? Life, the incomprehensible enigma, which 
thousands have tried in vain to solve. 

Ever since my early childhood I have looked 
upon this question seriously, and as I grew into 
young maidenhood, it has become more and more 
puzzling to me. This thought is ever beating pain- 
fully in my brain : " How shall I face life ; what 
am I to do?" If I ever prayed earnestly, this 
prayer is truly from the heart, " Oh, God, help me 
to do the right." 

Sometimes I pace restlessly back and forth, my 
soul perplexed with tormenting thoughts. 

What is before me? 

Oh, for power to raise the curtain of future 
years and to take one sweeping glance ! Would I 
shrink back in terror at the appaDing sight? 

Ah ! it is far better unknown ! 

" Could I recall the by- gone years, 

Would they not be improved? 
Would they be spent in smiles or tears — 

My heart from sin removed? 
Would joy, or grief, attend my way? 
Would all be Night, or all be Day? " 

Sometimes I think I shall be severely punished 

63 



for this discontent; and if I am, I shall know it is 
just. But I do shrink from the approaching years 
— I have not the courage to face the future. This 
is my confession ! 

I have arrived at the conclusion, if we have 
any desire to be happy, and enjoy life, we should 
never be serious. 

This bears a resemblance to "ideals." 

I have given that question much serious 
thought, and have decided that "ideals" are but 
phantoms, after which we chase, and when we 
grasp at them, we find they are but creatures of the 
imagination, that bring only discontent and long- 
ing for something that cannot be realized. 

I have read somewhere that — 

"The past and future are nothing, 
In the face of stern today! " 

I like this — it soothes me in my hours of rest- 
lessness and is a balm for my morbid spirit. It 
calls forth the thought that "We can only live a 
day at a time," and here am I, trying to amass the 
future years (that ever roll swiftly by), trying, as I 
say, to arrange them in one day, so I could live 
them and bid life, it might be, after all this discon- 
tent with it, a sad farewell — 



64 



n EMORY. 

The dawn is breaking. 

The violet rays broadening, turn to the dantiest 
of rose hues, that the fair maiden in beauty's bower 
might justly envy. 

Now, the clouds assume a golden splendor, and, 
as the sun beams forth, scattering blinding darts of 
flame along the pathway, which is strewn with 
roses of every hue. This golden light, as it falls 
upon leaf and tinted petal, reveals the sparkling 
drops of heavenly dew, which fancy converts into 
tears that have fallen from Melancholy's saddened 
eyes, as, in the friendly darkness of night, she wept 
alone. 

It is indeed a scene of bewildering beauty. 

Through this bewitching scene. Memory walks 
with drooping head. 

'Tis a face that reflects as a mirrow, every 
passing thought, and with the swiftness of the 
lightning it shows forth indignation, sadness, calm- 
ness — and these, in a moment's time, are replaced 
by the expression of merriment — the eyes and lips 
all laughter and mirth. And so Memory is ever a 
mischievous sprite, who, in moments of sadness 
flings darts of ridiculous humor across our path, 

65 



which, for a time, causes the sorrowful face to lose 
the pained expression, and a smile to lighten the 
eyes and touch the sad lips into sudden beauty. 

xlnd again, for our gayer hours, when happi- 
ness, like a breath of summer, is wafting us on and 
on — she has then, her moments of saddened 
thoughts to cast along our path ; which cause us to 
shrink as if a hand had roughly seized the heart 
strings which were attuned to happiness. 

So, through life, this sprite we choose to call 
'' Memory," who sings in sweetest strains heaven's 
melodies, and as we are lost in rapturous admiration 
and thrilled with exquisite joy, will coldly tread 
upon the heart, regarding not the pain she causes, ^ 
and when in anguish we plead for mercy, she turns o^ 
her regal head and allows her pitying eyes to rest P 
upon us, her lips parting in a saddened smile, as 
she exclaims : 

"Why dost thou appeal to me? for here am I, 
destined to wander in this vast, and dreary land, 
flitting among the wrecks which strew the banks 
of past time ! Blame me not if I sometimes smile, 
or again sadden as I stand beside the funeral bier 
of dark deeds, and view in horror the sickening and 
decaying bodies ; when, in haste, I pass this horror- 
inspiring and repulsive picture, do not reproach me, 
as, in my hurried flight, I pass on to wrecks which 
have been washed high upon Memory's shore, and 
see there ridiculous pictures which cause me to 
laugh heartily. These flitting moods are my birth- 

66 



right— and as countless ages roll on and find a 
shadowy tomb in the realms of Memory, yet will I 
remain the same ; bringing sometimes sorrow, some- 
times joy, until the world shall cease to wheel 
through space ! 



67 



FROM CLOUD TO SUNSHINE. 



Clouds ! 

Clouds everywhere. 

Clouds being whirled along with the rapidity 
of a cyclone ; now such masses of dense darkness 
that one almost ceases to breath, with only a sen- 
sation of flying through space on eagle wings, wild- 
ly flinging the hands to grasp — empty air, seeing no 
ray of light, only feeling within the heart a force 
that fills you with a terrible thrill of horror, carry- 
ing you on and on — where? 

Suddenly there is a blinding flash of light, that 
makes the senses reel. 

With starting eyes I see rolling tongues of 
flames, that are hissing and seething, but no clouds 
of ashes. 

Hist ! that was surely a cry ! 

It cannot be the storm spirits, for with that 
sound I hear not the frenzied shrieks of joy and 
ecstasy that you catch from those madly flying 
phantoms. Surely they are the shrieks of miserable 
souls, tortured, it would seem, almost beyond en- 
durance. 

Why does my heart grow faint, and almost 
cease to beat, then throb with such fear and pity? 

Ah, joy, joy! I am being carried on ! I gather 
68 



courage and cast a backward glance, seeing spirit 
hands beckoning, and imploringly flung out. 

Can this be myself? I laugh madly and cry, 
"What have I to do with thee, oh, sin and punish- 
ment ! " 

Lo ! the scene is changed ! 

Am I awake? Surely, I dream ! What is this 
I see — a couch where innocence and sin together 
rest? A scene of beauty so pale and fair, with 
flowing draperies and locks of tangled gold. 

Half of a dainty foot peeping from under the 
folds of soft garments ; one can clearly trace the 
beautiful limbs so gracefully curved. But with 
this vision of seeming youth and innocence, the 
round sinuous body of a jetty reptile appears lying 
across the snowy ankle ; along the edge of the 
couch, with graceful bend the neck is turned and 
the hideous head of this monster reposes upon the 
gentle breast, where the tangled locks form a mesh 
of gold, and the lovely shoulder peeps forth in all 
its delicate beauty. I catch a glimpse of another 
horrible black head. 

I am spellbound, facinated. Creeping nearer 
and nearer, I stand, at last, beside this couch. 

I bend closer, with gasping breath, and unbe- 
lieving eye. 

" I look upon the sleeping form — 
Nor stir, lest I the slumber break! 
But lo! it is th' eternal sleep— 
The sleep from which none ever wake! " 

— R. 
69 



CONCLUSION. 



" Go, you may call it madness, folly, — 
You shall not chase my gloom away; 
There's such a charm in melancholy, 
I would not, if I could, be gay." 

—Rogers. 

Great waves of sadness roll over me, and yet I 
know not why my soul is so tempest-tossed, or 
why, today, I feel myself sinking, sinking beneath 
a sea of misery ; or why, tomorrow, I may stand 
with folded arms, looking back on the restless 
creature of today, with a cynical smile, prone to be- 
lieve that the calm soul of the present was, but a 
few hours ago, lost in despair ! 

In my despairing moments come the words of 
the saviour, "My God, my God, why hast Thou for- 
saken me?" Then, when "Peace like a river at- 
tendeth my way," I look to Him with grateful heart 
and say, "Father, I thank Thee ; may I never again 
suffer the sad pangs of the past." 

**0, Father, guide me to my journey's end — 

Light Thou my way; 
May darkness be dispelled— my soul ascend 
To Heaven's day." 

— R. 
70 



